


A Man of Science

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Clinical Language, Disturbing Themes, Drugged Sex, Fingerfucking, Kink Meme, M/M, Unconscious Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:49:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I am a man of science, and all that I want from a body that lies on my slab is to teach me things.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of Science

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Musketeers Kink Meme, as answer to the prompt:
> 
> _For whatever reason, Aramis has been drugged and as a result is deeply unconscious. The person watching him - this can be a bad guy, an oc musketeer, any one really - can't help but want to touch. Starts out slow - just stroking his hair, touching his cheek etc, but becomes bolder as he realises he can get away with pretty much whatever he wants, providing no one catches him. Their pov._
> 
> Okay, so this was the first thing I wrote in the Musketeers fandom. I left it anonymous for ages, because I didn't want this to be the first impression the nice people in the fandom had of me, as a totally depraved pervert. I've written enough other stories now to be able to prove I don't do just sick stuff. Some sick stuff, yes, but not exclusively.

The men who come to me don’t breathe. They don’t move, they don’t speak. They don’t hurt. They can teach me things, though, many things. Many things there are that I’ve been taught by a fresh cadaver.

The first and most important thing they’ve taught me is to tell if they’re dead. Sometimes they are brought to me with breath left in their lungs and blood running through their veins. I send them away then, they’re no use to me. 

I wasn’t there when they brought me that one, and they left him there for later, on the slab, white-faced and still and cold. They are brutes, those men who drag in the cadavers, they don’t know how to treat a body. They’ve never learned.

I am a man of science. I know that a man is not dead as long as the knife edge I hold over his mouth mists over with his breath. I know how to press my fingers to the side of their neck to feel the throb of blood, still alive, still moving, still despatching life through the body. He was of no use to me, that one, there was still breath in him. I would not cut him open and fill him with straw, not yet.

I could have sent him away then and there, but I am a man of science. A deathlike state isn’t normal for a man to be in. Even though I could not cut him open, I could study his body as it lay lifeless before me. There was no blood in his hair, ergo there was no wound to his head. I washed my hands and dried them carefully. It’s important to touch a body with clean hands, mine are always clean. I have the water in my washbasin changed twice, three times a day.

I ran my fingers through his hair. I had met him many times before, so full of life he always was. One of the King’s musketeers he was, quick and smart, I could tell he would’ve made a good man of science, the way he studied the cadavers, touched them. He understood the importance of my work. Aramis they called him. An assumed name if I ever heard one. Many of them take on false names when they enter a regiment, wayward sons of nobility, to hide a shameful past.

I carded my fingers through his hair, slowly-like, carefully, searching for any evidence of an injury, for wounds or bumps. Soft it was, soft and clean. We don’t get much clean hair down here, most of them who are brought to me are covered in filth and grime. He was clean, this one, and I leaned in to smell his hair, bergamot and lavender pomatum I smelled, expensive kind of smell. Unusual in a soldier.

His skull had not been injured, but something had rendered him insensitive. I held his head in place, my fingers still buried in his hair, and hovered my face over his mouth. I breathed in deeply, smelling his breath, and there it was: the heavy, bittersweet smell that told me all I needed to know. Poison it was, given to him in wine probably where he would not taste it. I could smell wine on his lips. I ran my hand down his cheek, his beard was almost as soft as the hair on his head, all the way down to his mouth. I tipped my finger to his lips and sucked it into my mouth, moist with his breath. It told me what his mouth would taste like.

I slipped a finger inside his mouth, the heat in there a confirmation of life, and then I brought it to my mouth and sucked in in again, slowly, savouring it.

I know what you’re thinking. I am not an animal. There are men down here who will use a fresh cadaver for their personal pleasure, but I’m not one of them. I am a man of science, and all that I want from a body that lies on my slab is to teach me things.

This body here could teach me things, even though he wasn’t dead. It was the body of a soldier, but it was the body of a well-groomed courtier. I pulled off his gloves, one finger, two, three, four, five, and the other hand, one, two, three, four, five. Very pale hands he had, with clean nails. A soldier’s hands, but a libertine’s hands too, accustomed to roving over the bodies of highborn females. I can tell where a man gets his pleasure by looking at his hands. Well-kept hands mean he’s admitted to the best boudoirs, on account of the ladies being quite particular about hygiene. Them who go to whores don’t bother keeping their hands clean and their nails blunt.

I pressed my fingers to his wrist, counting in my head in time with the faint throbs. The blue lines there were clear and strong and I traced up his arm to where it disappeared under his sleeve. But the pulse was faint, and so I pressed my fingers to the side of his neck instead, where the pounding of the blood would be stronger. His head, disturbed by the motion of my hand, rolled to the side. His neck exposed, a long, taut line, the ridge of the tendon pointing down to his chest, arrow-like. The skin was cool to the touch as I wrapped my hand around his neck, pulling him more closely towards me. I could feel the pulse there, just, but I could not see it, even when I leaned in so that my nose brushed against his skin.

It’s dark down here, you see. We’ve to be economic with our candles. Often it’s not by sight that we handle our cadavers but by touch. I know how to move a body, how to lift it, how to remove its clothes, I can do it with my eyes shut.

I didn’t do it with my eyes shut with this one. Slowly, careful-like, I unbuckled his belt, lifted him up with one arm around his waist and unwrapped the sash around his middle. It was a matter of one-two minutes, some of the men who work down here require an assistant to undress a body, but not me. I pulled off his boots and stockings and put them carefully aside.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… all the way down, the worn leather like velvet under my fingers, and his doublet fell open over his chest. I unbuckled the pauldron on his shoulder and put it aside as well. I grabbed him by the upper arm, rolled him over onto his side, pulled off the sleeve, rolled him onto the other side, pulled off the other sleeve and let him gently roll back onto his back.

He looked much slimmer without his uniform, the broadness of his shoulders no longer emphasised by the bulk of the leather. Slimmer and younger and paler, the white skin in stark contrast to the dark hair. His eyes were dark, too, I knew that even though I could not see them now. Dark lashes trembled against pale skin like the wings of a moth. I ran my thumb over the arch of his brow, willing his eyes to remain closed, to give me time to examine his body.

Well-worn his shirt was, but trimmed with fine lace. Good quality material, we don’t often get to touch such soft fabrics down here. I pulled it off him with great care, he wouldn’t thank me if it got damaged during the examination. 

I stood by his head and moved both hands from his shoulders along the curve of his collarbones to his sternum. On the left side, my fingers detected an unevenness beneath the skin where his collarbone had once been broken and mended. There was a scar from where a musket ball had penetrated his right shoulder. The skin was firm and smooth, no signs of a rash. Either he didn’t have the clap or it didn’t yet show on his skin. He was still young, and if he was a favourite of high-born ladies, he might escape the curse of the pox for a few more years yet.

Two ribs on his left side had once been broken, too, perhaps when he was stabbed with great force, but more likely in a different skirmish. The scar curved beneath the arch of his ribs didn’t look like it had been caused by a deep wound.

I let my hands explore the body freely, relishing in the feel of warm, living skin under my palms, relishing the knowledge that if I cut it, it would bleed, but it would also heal.

I wasn’t going to cut it, tempting though it was. As a man of science I often wondered what miraculous forces make the broken skin whole again, how the body mends itself. A cadaver will not tell me that.

I put my knife aside. No, my examination of this body would not involve breaking the skin. I would be careful with him, gentle.

Even as I was examining him, I didn’t see his ribs move to accommodate the expansion of his lungs as he drew breath. I could feel him breathe, just, when I pressed my hands against his chest. And there, buried deep beneath the layer of skin and the cage of ribs, the dim throb-throb-throb of his heart pulsated all the way up into my palm. I lay my head on his chest, listening to the beat that would grow stronger and firmer in the next hours. But not yet. Now, it was as feeble as the flicker of a dying candle.

There was no time to waste. Even as my ear was pressed to his chest, my fingers unbuttoned his breeches. The throb of the blood is strongest in the groin, and I removed his remaining clothes swiftly to lay him entirely bare. I cupped his groin in my hand, concentrating on the pulse that I could feel there. The hair that covered his groin and upper thighs scratched against my wrist and lower arm, but as a man of science I was used to ignoring such inconveniences. The membrum virile lay soft and pliant, and I picked it up, rolled it between my fingers, pulled back the skin from the tip, examined it with my hands and then leaned in to smell it. It smelled clean and healthy, with an underlying scent that went straight to my head, more so even than the taste of his mouth had.

Ashamed, I’m ashamed to admit, but there was a moment just then when I almost forgot that I was examining a body. Instead, a shameful urge rushed through me and I let go of the organ afraid that I might’ve otherwise fondled it in a way that would’ve been unseemly. Fondling a stranger’s genitals is the profession of a whore, not that of a man of science.

I knew that if I did fondle it, if I took it in my hand, if I moved my hand up and down in smooth, easy strokes, there would be a rush of blood under his skin, the blood that I’d felt pulsing in his groin. A purely physical, animal reaction this is, the filling of the membrum, I’ve seen it many times. Angel lust is common in the bodies they bring to me, especially those of hanged men. 

But this one wasn’t dead. It would be easy to coax him to hardness using only my hand and a drop of oil. A beautiful sight he would make, spread out on the slab before me like this, with his eyes closed and his lips parted. Just because I’m a man of science doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the beauty of a human body. It’d be interesting to see if I could make his chest rise and fall again, if my ministrations would counter the effects of the drugs they’d given him. If by my hand he could be pulled out of his deathlike state.

All this would’ve been interesting to examine, but there was something else that I decided to focus on. There was another way to make the membrum virile fill and grow and harden, I’ve heard about it but I’d never had the chance to experiment first hand. This is an area in which a cadaver is of no use.

With a living, breathing body before me, I was able to explore the theory. The bottle of oil was quickly fetched. I oiled the forefinger of my right hand. A few drops dribbled down my hand, dripped onto his thigh. Glistened in the candlelight. Beautiful it looked, and inviting. I almost ducked my head to lick it off, but that wouldn’t have been seemly. Instead, I parted his thighs, slipped my hand between them and screwed my finger right into the tight ring of muscles.

Now, there’re many of you who’d find this to be filthy. To a man of science as myself, one orifice of a human body is very much like another. My hands had touched internal organs of any kind, stomachs, livers, intestines, lungs, hearts. Pushing my finger into another man’s sphincter was a clean and pleasant act by comparison.

And it was pleasant. His body, with the thighs thrown open wide, one hand resting on his stomach, the other on the top of his thigh where I’d placed it, was pleasant to look at. I don’t often get the chance to see a beautiful body before me, and this one was. I pulled my finger out to the first knuckle and pushed it back in. It was a tight fit, his body unprepared, his muscles fighting the intrusion even though his mind was unconscious. The walls of flesh around my finger were soft like a sponge and yet firm like a noose. When I kept still, I could feel the pulse of his blood throbbing around my finger, stronger here than anywhere else in his body. I withdrew my finger again and pushed it back in, slowly, and again, and again, more quickly. I could feel his body adjust around me, the muscles slick with oil, opening around my finger like a flower that blossoms. When I pulled out my finger again, his body seemed unwilling to let go, sucking me back in. But I resisted. I withdrew completely, poured more oil over my hand, and thrust in two fingers.

The tight ring was breached, open, willing to let me in. Now, I could begin with my examination. I crooked my fingers, explored with my fingertips, moving, twisting, screwing, until something happened. The member that had been nestling quietly in the hair that covered his groin twitched. It was the smallest of twitches, barely perceptible, could almost have been a trick of the light. But it wasn’t. I pulled my hand back and pushed it in in the same fashion, and saw his member twitch again. This time it was unmistakable. It began to harden as blood filled it, the blood that I was coaxing there by the merest thrusts of my hand. The theory was proved to be correct. I had to proceed with the examination. 

I glanced at my watch to see how long it would take me to make him fully hard. My wrist was beginning to hurt – I’m not as young as I used to be, and my joints often cause me pain these days. And so I added a third finger, pushing it in alongside the others, widening the hole that welcomed the new intruder with filthy-sounding suction. I had never massaged a man’s sphincter before. I had examined many, in cases where it had to be proved that a body had fallen victim to acts of sodomy. I would be careful here, no traces would be left. I’m not a sodomite, the thought of withdrawing my fingers and replacing them with my member didn’t appeal to me.

His member was fully hard now, standing proud and erect, pointing at my chest. It was larger than I’d expected, bend slightly to one side and glistening at the tip. It was certainly larger than mine, but by how much? A direct comparison was necessary, and I unbuttoned my own trousers, clambered onto the slab, kneeled between his thighs and pressed my member to his. I realised now that I would have to take him in my hand after all in order to examine us both side by side. The position was rather awkward, since I had to continue massaging the spot inside him that had caused him to harden in the first place. It’d be much easier if I pushed my member inside him, but then I wouldn’t be able to press it against his.

I grabbed them both with one hand. My other hand was back between his legs, and I circled the hole with one finger, marvelling at how open it was, how quickly his body had adapted. If I weren’t a man of science, I’d say it was obscene how hungrily his slickened muscles sucked in my finger the moment I dipped in the tip. 

I was holding us both against each other, studying the different shapes, his girth making it impossible to get a good grip on both at the same time. My testicles rested on his, a brush, a soft pressure. I watched the viscous liquid that preceded his spill cling to my skin, mingle with mine. My thighs were trembling from the exertion and I had become rather short of breath. My wrist had gone numb, twisted into an unnatural position between his legs. But I couldn’t stop now, I had to study his body’s reactions, I watched his stomach begin to tremble, a flutter of breath, a shock, a spasm running through him. He was close to spending himself, I could tell by the way the pulse around my fingers had quickened, strengthened, how his stretched hole was clamping down on me, faster and faster.

It would be so much easier to bury myself in that pounding ring of flesh. But no, if I spent myself inside him, he would find the traces of it later. This was better, cleaner. Safer. The rhythmic pressure around my fingers became almost unbearable, biting down on me again and again and again, whilst the flesh in my hand shook and forced his seed out in long shuddering bursts. His body clutched at my fingers with a shattering force that threatened to break my bones, and I fear I might have cried out. I was spilling myself too, splattering all over his stomach and chest, a few drops even landed on his neck like the pearls of a broken necklace. For a moment, I was consumed by the fear that his muscles had clamped down too hard, that I wouldn’t be able to pull my fingers out. But then, his body relaxed with a final shudder and my fingers slipped out easily, dragging a squelching sound and the dribble of oil in their wake.

It took me only a few minutes to get my breath back. I tucked myself back in and washed my hands, keeping an eye on him throughout. His ribcage was moving up and down now, quite visibly, up and down. There was a faint flush on his face and his chest, and the pool of semen was drying on his skin and in the hair on his groin. I fetched a fresh cloth, dipped it in water and began cleaning him methodically, beginning with the sprinkled drops on his neck and working my way down his body. This warm, breathing body, with its broad pectoral muscles and its smooth white skin. My hand, I must admit, trembled a little when I moved it between his legs, washing him very carefully there, removing all traces of oil from the crease, massaging the flesh gently with the moist cloth to bring down the swelling. I would dress him again in a minute or two, that young, virile body, that body that had become my teacher. The body that was so beautifully, gloriously alive.


End file.
